


Dragon Age Prompt Fills

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mixed Relationships, Multi, Multiple ships, Other, Specific tags listed in each chapter, mixed ratings, multiple characters, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-05-07 16:42:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14675199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: A collection of prompt fills and other ficlets that don't fit into any specific timeline, usually for the Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle weekly writing event. Each prompt will have its own chapter, with the prompt, relationship(s), rating, and any content tags listed in the chapter notes.To suggest prompts, check out myprompts menu





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "First full breath after a battle." 
> 
> Pairing: Iron Bull and Asaara Vell (half Qunari Trevelyan Inquisitor).  
> Rated: T+. Tags: hurt, injury.

“Bull, look–”

The dragon’s massive tail swept over the craggy ground, scraping along broken columns of basalt. It caught Asaara on its backswing, tossing her like a massive ragdoll against the valley wall.

“Inquisitor!” Solas threw another blast of earth at the beast’s face, distracting it and interrupting the pull of its wings. “Help the Inquisitor,” he cried. A wide arc of his hand birthed a wall of ice between Asaara and the dragon, a line of defense as he and Sera harried its legs.

Iron Bull rushed to Asaara, hauling her up from the rocks. He ran a critical eye over her, a low growl rumbling in his chest at the sight of an open gash at the side of her head. “You need to take a potion, fast, or cast something to stem that,” he told her tersely. “As soon as you can. Then you get up on those rocks, and I want you only casting whatever bubbles you want, but that’s all you can do. Do you understand me?”

She shook her head defiantly and regretted the movement, trembling hands raising to her eyes to fend off wavering stars. “I’ve gotta… do–”

He growled and raised his hand to capture her wrists, pulling them from her face. “You’re going to listen to me, that’s what you’ve gotta do. Potion, rocks, barrier, in that order, Sara.”

Asaara met his eye, wincing with the effort, and finally nodded. Iron Bull dropped her wrists and made his way back into the fray with a furious roar, his rage echoing off the walls of the valley. She focused on climbing further along the path up the broken mountainside, her eyes blurring the world around her.

Weak legs threatened to give out under her but she made it, protected from the dragon’s ground attacks by her higher vantage point. She shivered and willed herself calm, her fingers carefully extracting a narrow lyrium phial from her belt pouch, and swallowed the thick liquid with a pained grimace. The world came back into focus over the span of minutes and she watched with growing horror as Bull dove in front of a vicious swipe of a clawed foot, making himself a barrier between the beast and Sera.

Her hands shook as she cast barrier after barrier, the thin strands of magic condensing in tense shields around her companions, deflecting the barrage of dragon fire that swept over the field. Asaara felt her mana draining with each spell but continued on, holding the barriers firm with one thought and casting explosive ice runes at the dragon’s feet with another.

Maker, let it be enough, she prayed.

A massive, echoing shout sounded out and she could hear the thick squelch of Bull’s war axe driving into the dragon’s thick neck, even from her vantage point. She captured the beast’s front feet in blocks of ice, effectively pinning them to the ground, and watched as her companions killed the mighty creature.

Bull gave a triumphant roar as his war axe cleaved through the dragon’s scaled neck. Sera whooped and leapt from her perch on a nearby boulder, and Solas simply leaned against an outcropping of rock, hunched and panting for breath. She collapsed where she stood, tumbling and only just catching herself with weary hands before she crushed the glass flasks in her potions belt.

“Sara!”

Thunderous footsteps made their way up the rocky path to her ledge. Distantly she felt herself cradled by large, warm hands, but the shouting didn’t abate. Asaara opened her eyes and found Bull crowding out the world, his silver visage pulled into a mask of wrathful  concern.

“Lyrium. I told you a health potion! Elfroot, you idiot.” His hands shook where they cradled her head and shoulders. “You need to listen to me, Sara,” he demanded. Bull shifted to reach for his belt and she cried out, the movements jostling the likely breaks in her ribcage and her throbbing head. He growled and tore the cork from another flask, spilling some of the liquid in the process, and pressed the lip of the bottle to her mouth. “Drink.”

She sputtered but swallowed, the herbaceous liquid burning its way down her throat. For a few minutes the warmth gathered painfully in her chest, but then spread through her limbs, drawing out the worst of her injuries.

Asaara struggled but he only cupped her jaw, his hand on the back of her head tightening. She met his gaze, his grey eye glinting almost bronze in the shadows that cast over his face.

You should have listened to me, Sara,” he insisted quietly. “Healing potion and barriers only. You…” Bull shook his head

“Couldn’t - let you have - all the fun,” she replied through painful breaths. She raised a shaking hand to his face, running her fingers along his cheekbone.

He barked a harsh, unkind laugh and bent to brush his brow over hers. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days and I’m gonna have to break it to Krem. He’ll never recover.”

“I am - rather delightful,” Asaara wheezed with a lopsided smile. Tears pricked at her eyes and she clenched them shut against the look on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well… let’s just make sure you stay delightful. And alive. Solas!” He shouted over his shoulder, the loud noise rattling in her ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fic prompt: “Why won’t you answer me?” with Anders and Justice. 
> 
> Pairing/Characters: Anders, Justice
> 
> Rating: General

It was never easy, talking. Not with purpose, anyway. Anders always babbled when he was nervous, a leftover tic that not even the circle could abuse out of him.

It was even worse here on the ship, bouncing over the waves in the dark. 

A wave of nausea hit him and he curled into himself in the hammock, swinging wildly between the wooden ribs of the ship. He missed his friends. He missed the Warden Commander. He missed antagonizing Nathaniel. He missed his cat. Even Vigil’s Keep wasn’t so bad, if he thought hard about it.

He missed talking with Justice.

“Why won’t you answer me?” he muttered bitterly to himself, his mouth muffled by the sleeves of his long coat, careful and cautious in the barracks-styled crew’s cabin. He had long since cried himself dry, sobs wracking his throat and pounding through his chest. Anders rubbed his cheek over the fabric, unable to help the quiet whimpering that whispered through him.

Panic - frustration - anger - fear? -  roiled within him, like the storm outside that tossed them about the ocean. The ebb and flow of his emotions felt heightened, intensified, multiplied since joining with the spirit, setting his nerves on edge with every passing moment.

_I don’t know who I am - who we are - anymore. How do I talk to you again? Why won’t you answer me?_

He clenched his eyes shut and balled his fists, willing the world to stop spinning around him.

* * *

It wasn’t anything like Kristoff’s mind.

Kristoff had been… quiet. Lively for a dead man, all in all, but quiet - his mind was easily inhabited, his body yielding to Justice’s command. Kristoff was a good man, reflected in his lingering memories and shadows of his mind.

The spirit knew joining with a living host would be different. He had spoken with Anders on the topic for weeks before they merged, but nothing prepared him for the manic, unrelenting  _vibrancy_  that was the man’s inner world.

It was chaos - a constant feeling of falling, Anders’ mind clenched all around him. He could feel Anders and his fear, flashes of emotion rippling through the mental landscape.

_Calm, Anders, calm,_  he ordered, not for the first time. His own inner center shook, boiling with a rage he had never before felt, threatening and wild. 

_“Why won’t you answer me?”_  Anders’ words filtered through the world, like speech from another room, the words smothered as they traveled. 

Justice bristled and screamed; his answers fell ineffectually in the chaos around him.

Everything was different, and though they had prepared the best they could for it, nothing could have prepared them for the turmoil that was their shared state.

_Calm yourself, Anders,_  Justice repeated.  _Be still and listen for me._

The spirit echoed the thoughts across the turbulent landscape, unable to pierce the veil of Anders’ emotions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "A faintly smoky tavern, filled with song and chatter". Maybe something with Varric and/or Isabela? Whatever you're feeling!
> 
> Pairing/Characters: Varric Tethras  
> Rating: General

Somewhere it’s been said that you can never go home again. Varric always had laughed it off before, but when he stood before the door, he realized he might have to concede that whoever “they” are, they could be right.

He hadn’t been avoiding the place, he told himself. It’s just a place, after all.

But he knew the power of a setting, how it becomes a character that shapes the story, that brings unlikely heroes and ragtag misfits alike together before traipsing into some adventure or another.

Varric hesitated outside the Hanged Man’s door. He hadn’t been avoiding it, he told himself again; it’s just hard to walk through regular doorways with the weight of the ridiculous crown pressing down on him. Andraste’s sainted ass, it was a burden.

He pushed through the door and into the tavern.

It was… exactly as he had left it, and yet nothing was the same.

The folks that called his name called him _Viscount_ and  _Your Excellency,_ in respectable tones that bordered on boredom, before turning back to their companions.

Shit, was he still wearing the crown? Varric brushed his hair back from his face surreptitiously; no, he’s just the asshole walking in on the party.

The usual table was open. He took to his former spot.

For all the chatter and song - someone brought in an actual bard, he noted - the Hanged Man was strangely empty. No friendly glint of daggers, no scowling elves, no feathers nervously ruffling about; conspicuously absent were the mumbled prayers at the sight of gambling, and even the inane questions at the double-entendres flying about.

For a moment, he almost wondered - where was everybody? - before reality stepped in again.

“Ah, looks like trouble’s walked in!”

“You know me, Norah. Some things never change,” he said glibly. She brought him an ale before he had the chance to order. The woman knew her patrons.

“Some things have,” she confided. “You heard Corff sold the place? Well, you’re looking at the proud owner!” Norah beamed. “Been a while since you’ve been around, you and your lot. Figured you might not know.”

He gave a low whistle. “And here I was hoping he’d finally come to senses and would sell it to me, now that I’m respectable and such.” Varric smiled at her and raised a toast. “Good for you, Norah. Hopefully it’s a good investment.”

“Served me all right so far. Speaking of serving…” She smiled and made her way toward a knot of patrons calling for her attention, and he turned back to his ale.

They’re all moving on. It’s only right - Kirkwall had to recover sometime, just like the rest of the world. Good for her. Good for Kirkwall.

Varric nursed his ale long enough, finishing with a quick swallow before fishing a silver coin from a pocket and dropping it into the empty tankard. He had just made it to the door before Norah called out to him.

“You’re always welcome to take a load off. If that crown ever gets too heavy, I’ve got your old key, waiting for you.”

Varric smiled at her. “Might have to take you up on that,” he warned, and made his way into the dark street.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The snap of a bowstring, taut and true" 
> 
> Characters: Sera, unnamed Inquisitor  
> Rating: G

"Quiz, nah, you’re - oi, just give it here!”

Sera took the bow with one hand and grabbed an arrow with another, piecing them together in one breath and loosing in the next. The arrow dug into the hay-filled target with a soft thump, hitting the backboard. 

“You see, you just - well, you… huh.” The words weren’t coming. 

“You just ‘huh’ at it?”

“Don’t be daft,” Sera said with a frown. She shuffled on her feet and drew another arrow. “Just, I dunno. Do what I do.” Sera drew the bow as slowly as she could, bringing the string to her cheek. “You gotta be all firm with it,” she instructed. “Gotta know where you need the arrow to go, and then send it there.” 

Her fingers released and the bowstring snapped, shoving the arrow through the air down to the target. Another thud. 

She gave the bow back to the Inquisitor, who drew it back only to drop the nocked arrow. Sera sighed and retrieved it, pushing it into place. “Right here,” she muttered, moving stiff fingers over the string to the correct position. “Now loose and see where we are.” 

The bowstring snapped, but collided with the Inquisitor’s fingers. Sharp curses rent the air. 

Sera shoved her hands in her hair, fisting the choppy lengths with frustration. “Okay, yeah, we’re… you suck at this, Quiz. Go ice your hand, we’re gonna start back up tomorrow.”

She took the bow back and slung it into her harness with a shake of her head, watching the Inquisitor leave the makeshift archery range. “Good thing not everyone needs to be an archer, or we’d be boned.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "For the kiss prompt: M!Handers, 30 [comforting] combined with 16 [lazy]? Or just 30 if you'd rather."
> 
> Pairing: Anders/Garrett Hawke  
> Rating: Teen
> 
> CW: Panic attack

_Heart thumping, pounding, primeval beat threatening to escape his chest - he runs, he falters, he falls. A swish of steel behind him - he feels the rush of air of a swung blade at his back. His body aches as he struggles to his feet. His legs crumple again, he’s driven to his knees. The end threatens to come, unnervingly swift, horns sharpened to deadly points with an even deadlier rage._

_Their eyes meet, the broadsword swings, a scream rends the air of the keep -_

“Garrett!”

He falls back into his body with a jolt, throat raw and raging. Limbs scrambling, he falls out of the bed before he fully returns from the Fade; eyes wide and wild, he scrabbles backwards across the floor. A crack behind him - his enemy? He flings a hand to his back for a dagger that isn’t there. His heart races; his hand comes back empty, he is defenseless. Eyes scan frantically for a weapon. His chest heaves over a clenched stomach, every muscle coiled in on itself.

“Garrett?” Anders tumbles from the bed to pad to him, long fingers sweeping sleep from his eyes. “Garrett, love, I’m here.” He watches with unnerved horror as Garrett’s fingertips dig at the gnarled, ragged scar that stretches over his abdomen, the tissue still silver-pink and irritated in its newness.

“So much, there’s so much,” Garrett babbles, hands cupped just under his rib cage, fingertips pressing into the soft cavity there. “Too much, too much…”

Anders kneels at his side and reaches tentatively toward Garrett’s shoulder. “Garrett, you’re home, you’re safe.” Scrabbling fingers continue to their attempts to burrow into soft skin and Anders grits his teeth. “My love,” he tries to soothe, taking Garrett’s hands in his own. “You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.”

Hawke struggles in Anders’ grip and slowly comes to a stop, dragging long, shuddering breaths through his body. His unfocused eyes light on Anders; he gradually pieces together the other man’s face and he is suddenly released, every muscle unspooling within him, like a snapped wire cable.

“Anders,” he says, and the name comes out as a pained gasp. “It was…”

“I know, love, I know.” Anders brushes a clinging wave from Garrett’s sweat-slicked brow before wrapping his arms around his lover, drawing them both slowly to the floor. Garrett follows limply, letting Anders stretch him across the floor and press into his side.

“I’m here, you’re safe,” the healer repeats, laying soft kisses to Garrett’s temple. “We’re home, Garrett, you’re okay. Nothing can hurt you here.”

Anders trails his lips over the curve of Garrett’s brow, cheek, jaw, chin, until Garrett captures his mouth, desperate and needy. Their legs tangle together and Garrett clings like he cannot bear for them to part. Garrett groans against his lover’s lips, or perhaps sobs, the noise captured by Anders’ mouth.

“Gentle, gentle,” Anders murmurs, drawing back just enough to meet Garrett’s dark gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.” He combs his fingers through Garrett’s shaggy hair, nails raking lightly over his scalp. “It’s going to be okay. You’re here, and I’m here, and we’re here together.”

Garrett nods with a tremble and presses their lips together once more. There’s less urgency in this kiss, their shared breaths anchoring them on the waking side of the Veil. Another shuddering tremor rips through him but Anders runs his hand down his back, and warmth suffuses through Garrett from that easy touch.

“I’m here,” Garrett finally says, when the panicked madness passes. “And you’re here.”

“And we are here together,” Anders replies. The healer draws slow, tender kisses down his jaw, his lips feather-light wherever they can reach.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "happy friday! for dwc: “Rich, decadent wine” and someone (or multiple people) losing their inhibitions a little"
> 
> Characters: Asaara Vell, Cassandra Pentaghast, Sera, Blackwall  
> Rating: Teen

It started out easily enough - an impromptu discussion turned into dinner, which turned into wine, which then turned into -

“And it was then that he tripped over the hem of his ridiculous robes-dress-thing, sprawling face first into the tile!”

Cassandra waved her hand animatedly, the warm interior of the tavern filled with raucous laughter. The glass tipped with a threat and the usually-austere Seeker took care of it, taking another long swallow. “Now, this man was a bore, and an idiot,” she said, wrinkling her nose with a disgusted snort. “I was only too glad to be called away, but I absolutely loved the face he made as he fell.”

Sera laughed, slapping her thigh. “Poncy lords and all that shite, right?” She got up from the table with a bounce, putting on airs as she strode about the tavern with an exaggerated gait. “Expecting all the  _‘yes m’lord’_  and  _‘no m’lord’_ and the little folks trippin’ over themselves for ‘em. Sittin’ pretty, all up in their castles and big houses, while the real people do the real work. Pfft!”

The archer threw herself into a practiced tumble, ending up staring at the ceiling as her companions laughed.

“If only they all tripped on their pretentious robes,” Cassandra said, lifting her glass in a mocking toast.

“Hear, hear!”

Asaara smiled as Sera regaled them with a Red Jenny tale, the woman’s arms flailing wildly as she spoke. Blackwall thumped the table with his big fist with a wide grin as she recited her story. Sera popped up from the floor, surprising Cassandra into a fit of drunken giggles and Blackwall into peals of laughter.

It was a good night, Asaara thought warmly, her own belly warm with the rich, decadent wine. The tavern glowed with camaraderie, and, for a moment, that’s all that mattered. She took a look at the wine bottle, savoring the cool glass between her fingers, and made note of the label. Perhaps she could convince Josephine to order more.


	7. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sweet, little Handers drabble I wrote in the middle of the night because I’m having Feelings. Featuring gender-ambiguous and class-ambiguous Hawke! 
> 
> Pairing: Handers  
> Rating: General

The thing about falling is that you don’t realize it’s happening until you take the tumble.

Otherwise, it’s just a step that might or might not be there, but hasn't decided yet. Or a piece of the cliff face that hasn’t rumbled out from under your feet. Sometimes it’s the first half of a leap, an arc not quite made, angling toward a finish with the landing spot in sight.

Hawke recognizes the fall too late, stomach churning with warm possibility and nerves not seen since Lothering.

“Hawke?”

Anders’ bright, golden face peers down, worry lining his brow. He blots out the sun, but that’s okay - he is just as comforting as any silent sunbeam, shedding his light wherever he goes. Whiskey-warm eyes dance from a tired face and he offers a strong hand. It’s always surprising, his strength, Hawke thinks, as he pulls Hawke to shaky feet from the dusty path.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs quietly, hand lingering a moment too long and brushing along sensitive skin when it retreats. Anders casts an attentive glance for injuries; his critical gaze professionally detail oriented as it skips down over Hawke’s armor.

“I’m fine,” Hawke offers meekly, a flush forming over scalded cheeks. “Just winded - hurt my pride more than anything.”

Anders hums, the sound non-committal in its assessment, and he steps backward again. Slender, graceful fingers run through his hair, pushing the unruly strands away from his face. His feather pauldrons flutter with the movement, and Hawke itches to run inquisitive fingers over the shoulders they silently protect, to know the shape of him under questing hands, to hear his heartbeat through those thick robes.

A noise calls - their companions, yelling for them - and Anders gives a quiet smile as he hurries back to the group, but stops midway, turning back slightly.

“Are you coming, Hawke?”

Hawke nods, the swirl of that something coiling between heartbeats, making a home in the nestle of a ribcage. “Yeah, on my way.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: Trope mash up - Fake dating and locked in a room, for uchidachi.
> 
> Pairing: Garrett Hawke and Varric Tethras  
> Rating: G

After the debacle that is the Deep Roads, neither Varric nor Hawke appreciate small spaces. Especially small, dark spaces. Small, dark spaces that they can’t escape. 

Unfortunately for them, this room is all of those things. 

They’re at some party. Well, not quite a party, but one of those  _soirees_  where everyone’s drinking, eating ridiculously miniature versions of perfectly good food, and sniping at each other from masks both literal and figurative. How Hawke let himself be goaded into this, he’s not sure, but Varric’s trying to distract them both with some ridiculous story or another. 

He’s going to kill his mother for talking him into this, he thinks. 

It’s not the end of the world, even though the walls are looking suspiciously close, and despite the fact that Hawke suddenly can’t catch his breath, because Varric is there, his big hand spanning over Hawke’s shoulder. “Hey, kid, you gonna make it?” he asks.

Hawke focuses on the sound, on Varric’s warm presence in front of him. The coolness of the wall behind him pressing through the fine material of his shirt. His hand wanders over the silk of Varric’s sleeve to reach his shoulder, fingers bunching in the fabric. 

Varric. The man had been to every one of these damned parties with him. Hawke hates it; hates when his mother singsongs his name,  _“Garrett, you really should go, it would be good for you,”_ hates when he’s announced as  _Messere Hawke Amell,_  like the name means anything to him, but it matters to Mother, so he goes, even though he hates the tiny food, the pretentious wine, the fake-laughs of the attendees. 

But Varric goes with him, every time -  _I’m one of those “merchant prince” types, remember?_  he says in explanation - and maybe Messere Tethras gets his own fancy invitations with embossed gold ink and ridiculous parchment, but Varric is always ready, even before Hawke asks him if it would please Master Tethras to attend. Varric knows the weight and shape of those invitations, no matter their sender, and is always ready with a sly smile and a joke and an increasingly fine wardrobe.

And Hawke finds that the nights can be a little more bearable, if only for Varric’s easy presence. Varric always knows exactly when to interject with a joke or a playful anecdote when Hawke is about to make an even bigger ass of himself, knows when to deflect and redirect the conversation elsewhere from the mysteries of Darktown or the unusual circumstances that had befallen the Amells, or from many other uncomfortable topics that Hawke can’t rightly think straight about when pressed. Varric is a good man, and good at what he does, and on nights like these, what he does is keep Hawke out of trouble with these people, and it’s ridiculous but appreciated.

But this time… the rumors. Oh, _Maker_ , the rumors, of Hawke and Tethras ne’er being parted, each the shadow of the other. It’s all quite romantic, he thinks, or it would be, if Varric had ever expressed even minute attention to him in that regard. No, just for his crossbow, but he always is game for Hawke’s harebrained shenanigans, and he tells himself it’s enough.

And now, locked in some room without another lockpick to spare, not even his ax handy to try to break the door down, the walls are closing in and the room is dark and Varric is close but not close enough, and his brain is rambling to him all the disastrous ways this reminds him of the Deep Roads, and reminds him of family no longer around, and of pain, and of betrayal, and –

Varric’s fingers squeeze around his shoulder and bring him back to the moment, far from the increasingly dark spiral of his internal monologue. “Hawke?” A tinge of panic, of concern, colors his voice.

He’s closer than he was a moment ago, crouching carefully in front of Hawke’s crossed legs, the sweet scent of wine on his breath fanning close; for a moment Hawke imagines rising up to meet him, to press his lips to Varric’s own, to see if they could make real the rumors, but Varric is a good man, and a good friend, and Hawke’s fingers only tremble a little at the strong muscles of archer shoulders. 

“I’m good, Varric,” he says instead. 

Hawke doesn’t know how long it is before someone - a servant? another party-goer? - is heard coming down the corridor. Varric relinquishes his hold on his shoulder and moves to the door, knocking and calling jovially out through the heavy wood. Somehow they are released from their temporary prison, and Varric sweettalks their way out of trouble, and manages not to get them thrown out of the party. Wouldn’t that have been a scandal!

Hawke’s gaze lingers on the dark gold of Varric’s hair, of the bright smile that transforms his face as they walk back to the ballroom. He talks his way back into the conversations of other guests, as if they had never left, and it’s all so easy it hurts. 

He busies himself at the buffet table, bringing back small plates for both Varric and himself. Varric gifts him with a wide grin -  _petit-fours, my favorite - Hawke, you certainly know how to spoil a man_ \- and Hawke wraps it up and tucks it into a mental pocket, warm there with Bethany’s radiant smile and Carver’s reluctant but surprisingly joyful laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Two trees, graceful and entwined together, drowned with golden leaves. "Why," he asks, heartbreak in his voice.
> 
> Pairing: Varric Tethras, Garrett Hawke  
> Rating: Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Hawke/Varric from ch. 8.

 “If you told me you had the run of a fortress, I might have come here sooner,” Hawke joked as they hid from the Seeker’s wrath. Varric snuck him along the battlements from tower to tower and was struck with a fond sense of familiarity. Here they were, just like old times, tiptoing around their scarier, more dangerous betters.

It made him almost homesick.  _Could you be homesick for a specific time?_

“Has it really been almost four years?” Varric asked softly once he shut the door to his room. His hands itched, he wanted… he didn’t know what he wanted - to be home, to be back  _then_  as well as there, to… 

 _But that isn’t going to be how it happens, is it, Tethras?_  

Garrett sighed, tired from the long years of running over all of Thedas, staying one or two steps ahead of the Seekers and the Templars and the whole blasted Chantry. 

“It’s been too long, Varric. Far too long.” Garrett sat heavily on the bed and turned those dark eyes to pin him in his chair. “I think I’m tired of running, to be honest.” He ran a hand through his ashen hair, peppered silver with stress over the years. 

 _It looks good on you,_  Varric wanted to tell him. “You can stop running,” Varric said instead. “The Inquisitor loved the Tale of the Champion. You might as well have hung the moon, the way she talks about you.”

“Yeah, well, you always had a way with words.” Hawke laughed, the sound filling the modest room, bouncing merrily off the stone walls.

Andraste’s ass, how he missed that laugh. It wasn’t as bright and infectious - that might be a good word, always spilling over into everyone around him - but it was there, and at its core stood Hawke. 

 _His_  Hawke. 

“Nah, you’re just that good. You know that.” Varric smiled. “And she’s very apostate friendly, if you… if you wanted to bring Sunshine around. She could do great work here with the mages.” 

Garrett’s smile faltered, his warm gaze flickering away. “Maybe,” he said, setting his jaw - a tell Varric knew from the old days, when Hawke couldn’t escape his thoughts, when his demons threatened to swallow him whole.

Varric scooted his chair forward and hesitantly reached out his hand to rest on Garrett’s knee. “Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.” Big brown eyes met his own, and Varric put as much warmth as he could into his smile. “You’re safe here, you’re gonna be okay. You don’t have to go to ground any longer.” 

Varric would later swear he didn’t tremble when Garrett lay his hand over his own, linking their fingers together. 

* * *

He could still feel the weight of stolen kisses on his lips when the Inquisitor returned, bloodied and shaking, closing the rift behind her. 

“Where is he?” he demanded, pushing forward through the assembled crowd of guards. The warden had stepped between them, but the Inquisitor’s face said it all. 

“We couldn’t all make it,” she said, her voice soft and tremulous. She addressed the larger crowd, meeting their eyes. “Garrett Hawke gave his life that we might escape from the demons, so that the surviving senior Grey Wardens have the opportunity to rebuild and restore their purpose. So that the order can work to rebuild the trust they have sundered. Hawke sacrificed himself so that the Grey Wardens and the Inquisition have a chance to kill Corypheus and his Archdemon, once and for all.”

The Warden bowed his head. “The Grey Wardens will join the Inquisition in this fight. We have proven that we cannot do this alone, having been led astray by our efforts to protect Thedas, no matter how noble and well-intentioned. As of this moment, we are indebted to the Inquisitor and the Inquisition.” He raised his sword to the sky. “Wardens!”

“In war, victory!” the remains of the order cried. “In peace, vigilance!”

“In death, sacrifice!” The Warden finished to hesitant, then vibrant applause. 

The world spun around his feet and Varric stumbled. He had to get out of here, get… anywhere, anywhere was better than this. Varric walked back to the Inquisition camp shell-shocked, empty, aching. 

The tent was the worst, he realized. The word would reach the camp soon, but the tent stood firm, filled with… everything. Hawke’s cloak was undoubtedly strewn over their bedrolls, their impromptu blanket from the night before the siege. Garrett’s spare boots still stood in their silent vigil outside their tent.

He collapsed once inside the canvas flaps, not bothering to tie the door to the tent down, kicking off his boots at the foot of the bedrolls. Hot tears spilled over his cheeks and he sobbed, smothering his cries into the thick wool of Garrett’s cloak. 

“Dammit, Hawke,” he grit out, his eyes clenched tight. “It was supposed to be us. We were supposed to have more time.  _Why?”_

He curled into himself, clutching the cloak tightly between his balled fists, as if to tuck it alongside the memory of its owner under his ribs.

* * *

They had been on the road for almost a month - he, the Inquisitor and her party,  and an accompanying band of soldiers, riding hard for Skyhold ahead of the rest of the army - and by now surely the saddle sores on his ass had saddle sores themselves, but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. He’d been writing in the moments between setting up camp and tearing it down, diluting the ink with his damn tears.

He had to get it down. Had to tell this last chapter of the tale.  _Had to._

Someone had to remember Garrett Hawke - not just the Champion, but the man.

Varric stole away from camp, hiding among the trees in the low light of dusk. The closer he got to Skyhold the harder it was getting, even worse than the tent had been back in the stifling heat of the desert. He stumbled into a small copse of gilded trees, leaves the golden color of a Kirkwall afternoon sun over the sea, the same color of saplings he had left in the Amell gardens back in Hightown. 

He clung to the trunk of one as he slid to his knees, buckled there in the loamy earth, the last word he could formulate on his lips without a thought. 

_Why?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sunset dripping fiery red over the sky for DWC!
> 
> Characters: Asaara Vell (half-human Trevelyan Inquisitor)  
> Rating: General

“Maker’s breath, I hate it here. Everything about this. Everything about them.” Asaara drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins, curling into herself along the cliff edge. “Who cares who sits on the big chair? Orlais can go rot. To the void with war!”

Her words came out louder than she meant, sweeping over the rocky earth of the Exalted Plains in the fading daylight. Asaara watched the scant clouds crawl across the sky in solitude. 

“Blessed Andraste, why do you let this happen?” she whispered. Blasphemy fell easier from her tongue now, since she joined with the Inquisition, her long-silenced thoughts slowly growing to pass her lips. “How can you let us do this to each other?”

Her eyes lingered, unfocused, on the horizon, and she could still smell the stench of burning flesh and rotting corpses from the Void-damned ramparts. Decay clung to her, scorched its path into her with every body they came across, with every vindictive demon bent on raging its way across the land. Even the living people here were hollow shells of themselves, too long lost to war after war after war. 

The sun dipped low into the far-off mountains. The Chantry taught that the sunset was not the Maker’s departure but His promise, a last breath of light to gird against the darkness of night. 

Asaara saw only the inevitability of blood - not grace - in that fiery light. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra talks through her annoyance. 
> 
> Characters: Cassandra Pentaghast, Varric Tethras (mentioned)  
> Rating: G

Cassandra stalked into the small room she called her own, setting the candle down on a nearby bureau before roughly pulling her Seeker tabard over her head. Coagulated blood and… whatever it was that lingered after the demons died still clung to the material, and swept over her cheek as she disrobed.

“That… that  _dwarf,”_ she hissed. Cassandra tossed the garment at the foot of her bedroll and went to work on the buckles of her armor. “He thinks he is so clever.” 

She scoffed, a harsh, indignant huff through her nose. 

“‘You need me,’“ she quoted, her Navarran accent mangling any attempt at the impression. “We don’t need him.  _I_ don’t need him. He’s a liability, and a storyteller.” 

Her hands stilled, and her eyes narrowed. “Who knows what stories he could be spinning, even now?” she asked the meager candle light. 

The sly  _smirk_ that crested his face hours earlier still shone brightly in her mind, her skin still pebbled with gooseflesh under her armor at his words. 

_You need me._

“Like a hole in the sky, I do.” 

Her fingers plucked her buckles apart and she shed the layers of armor easily, piling them on the relative softness of her bedroll. Cassandra stripped from her sweat and blood-soaked clothes, leaving her in her chemise and smalls. 

She rifled through her bureau for rags and a stiff brush, snagging a bottle of oil just before shutting the drawer. Cassandra settled onto the bedroll and focused her mind on inspecting her gear. Each meditative swipe of the cloth wiped away grime and gore to reveal the shining steel beneath.

But he had offered to stay, she thought, buffing a circle into her breastplate. Had effectively offered to aid the fledgling Inquisition. His skill with that crossbow was impressive, and even she had to give her grudging respect for his tactics after they had saved so many of their soldiers in the valley.

 _You need me._ His whisky-brown eyes had smiled up at her with a satisfied, knowing light while they bickered in the valley that afternoon. 

A slight tremble ran down her spine at the memory. 

She wasn’t sure what rankled her more: his self-assured confidence, or the fact that he was  _right._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @aban_asaara: "I immediately regret this decision” for Fenris and Isabela (romantically involved or otherwise!) please :D <3
> 
> Characters: Isabela, Fenris  
> Rating: Uh, T?

The bottle in her hand worried him almost as much as the unsteadiness of her feet, but nothing had him more concerned than the wide, devious grin that curled her lips.

“Come on, sweet stuff, won’t you join me?” Isabela brought her hands to her hips with an exaggerated shimmy. “Or will you leave me all by my lonesome?”

Fenris glanced at the thin wall of the warehouse roof, where Isabela all too confidently traipsed. She paced the wall, turning at the corners, the drink firmly enclosed in her grip.

_“Kaffas,_  Isabela,” he grumbled. His hands itched to pull her down, to save her from her drunken stupidity. “You’re going to fall.”

“Nah - you’d catch me before I do, wouldn’t you, Fenny?”

He stepped closer even as he answered. “Ugh.”

“Live a little, Fenris!” she admonished. A careful kick of her foot had her spinning easily on the stone wall. “You’re too… broody.”

Isabela giggled, her oaky eyes warm with mirth. “Grumpy, even, that’s for sure.”

Fenris felt himself sneer at her pronouncement but didn’t bother to correct her, instead studying the wall again. He sighed. “I immediately regret this decision.”

Isabela laughed when he hopped up to walk atop the stone face, balancing uneasily on one foot. His boots were wider than hers, somehow, but he managed not to topple over one way or another.

“See? That’s the spirit!”

He cautiously picked his way over to her, meeting her in the middle. Heel to toe, she told him, better for balancing. His natural tendency to walk on the balls of his feet - all the better for silence, for hiding - had him at a loss.

Isabela steadied him with one hand and held out the bottle with the other. “I’ve got you,” she told him. “Hawke would have my hide if I let you fall, anyway, and I happen to like my hide right where it’s at.”

Fenris eyed the bottle warily. “Why did I let you convince me to do this?”

“I didn’t convince you to do anything, sweet thing, I just gave you the opportunity.”

He snorted and took a swig of the liquor, the rum burning its way down his throat, so foreign from his usual wines. He grunted, wiping his mouth. “You’re sure this is alcohol?” he asked dubiously. “Tastes more like something Anders would have in his clinic.”

“A bit of booze is good for the soul, especially when you’re sick.”

“I meant as disinfectant.”

She laughed, full and throaty, tipping back on her heels. “Isn’t this fun, with the wind in your hair, the city at your feet?” she asked. With a grand flourish she turned to face out over Lowtown, the long shadows of afternoon casting their darkness on the stone and wood buildings. “You could piss on half of Kirkwall from here, I bet.”

He snorted again but didn’t answer, his gaze trailing at her feet. He wasn’t worried, he told himself. She was a rogue, through and through, and had probably done this countless times; Isabela might even be better, lighter on her feet than he was.

These facts didn’t stop him from wrapping his fingers around her wrist when she wobbled again.

“Aw, Fen, you care!”

He scowled and released her, though he kept his eye on her. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” he informed her.

Isabela windmilled her arms playfully, rocking back and forth slightly over the edge. “See, it’s -”

Her damn foot skittered off the stone and into free air, and she tipped.

Her laugh still lingered on the air when he burst into movement. Fenris’ gauntleted hand found hers once more and he leapt backwards to the safety of the roof, hauling her behind him. They clattered to the floor in an adrenaline-fueled heap.

_“Venhedis,_  Isabela, I told you to be careful!” he muttered tightly, gnashing his teeth. Fenris tightened his grip on her, instinctively holding her down. “You could have -”

“But I didn’t, and that’s what matters.” Her breath shuddered against his ear. “Though I’ll admit, when I thought about being on top of you, I wasn’t thinking this would be the reason for it.”

She rose to her hands, enough to look him in the eye, before his arms flexed around her. Isabela cocked an eyebrow.

“Not that I don’t appreciate all this, but won’t you let me get up?”

“Are you going to do that again, or do I need to hold you down?”

Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Oh, Fenris,” Isabela purred, leaning over him, “if you did, it’s because I let you.”

“Neither of us do anything we don’t want,” he reminded her. “If I did, it’s because you wanted me to, and I said yes.”

“Now you get it.” She wet her lips with a grin, her gaze flickering from his eyes to his mouth and back. “So then, about letting me up…”

Fenris closed the small gap between them, slanting his lips to cover her own. A pleased groan rumbled in his chest when she immediately returned the sentiment, and his hands drifted up her tunic to splay over her back and shoulders.

Her tongue teased at his lips, running along the seam of his mouth until he opened for her. A slight gasp - hers? His? - fluttered between them as she slicked into him, explorative and demanding.

Fenris’ hand fisted in her hair before he noticed, and she leaned back with a satisfied grin at the contact.

“Now tell me, why haven’t we done this before?” she asked playfully, nipping at his lower lip.

He didn’t answer; instead, he pulled experimentally at her hair, careful to keep the silken strands from snagging in his gauntlet.

Isabela laughed, her gaze sharp and hot on his face. “Keep doing that and I might not let you up, sweet stuff,” she warned him.

“I might let you.”

She shifted over him, settling into his lap with an appreciated grace. “Well then,” she murmured against his lips, “feel free to do so.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt: "We always have a choice."
> 
> Characters: Asaara "Vell" Trevelyan, Vivienne de Fer  
> Rating: General

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need more Vivienne positivity in my life.

“My dear. How are you holding up?” 

Asaara turned quickly, the movement prompting a blossom of pain to flood through her senses. “First Enchanter,” she greeted meekly, squeezing her broken arm to her chest. “I apologize. I would stand, but…” Asaara gestured with her unbound hand down her body, various limbs and parts bandaged and bound beneath her robes.

“You are healing, I would have none of that.” Vivienne waved her hand. “And please, just ‘Vivienne,’ my dear; we’re no longer in the Circle, that title doesn’t hold much importance outside of it. I would hope to consider us friends, anyway, or at least on a first name basis.” 

At Asaara’s welcoming wave, she sat in the opposite chair, looking out from between the columns of the gazebo. The garden was slowly coming to life before them, the result of hard work and many hands across Skyhold, building herb gardens for the healers and arranging hedgerows into a short penitent’s path for the faithful. 

“I heard the healers had released you from the infirmary and wanted to check on you myself,” Vivienne said softly. Her gaze swept over the garden before returning to Asaara, a worried frown tugging at her lips. “I saw your injuries as we made our way here, and conferred with your healers. You are an impressive figure, my dear. One would think you had escaped Haven unscathed, had they not seen you in person.” 

Asaara looked away, focusing instead on the floor. “Thank you, Enchanter,” she said numbly. “I… I wish I had been stronger. Faster. More ready. But…” Asaara scowled, frustrated tears pricking at her eyes. “How could anyone be ready for some undead Magister from a thousand years ago?”

“Asaara.”

She shook her head. “I know you joined with the Inquisition because you hope that we are strong enough to lead Thedas back to some semblance of order, to fight against this monster, but I fear you may be wrong. I don’t know if I am able to be that person.” 

“Then choose to be,” Vivienne said. “It is not weakness to admit that you are afraid.” She reached across the small table between them, her hand resting on the smooth wooden surface. “We always have a choice, Asaara. You can either let yourself believe you aren’t strong enough and doubt yourself, which will only further lead us all into ruin… or you can choose to accept your strengths and know when you need additional support, when you need to use what you have to become better.” 

Asaara pursed her lips, her aching bones begging for another sedating potion. “And what if I can’t?” she asked quietly. 

Vivienne smiled. “Then I and your fellows shall simply have to remind you. I say again, you have done many amazing things, especially for one so young. No one blames you for being scared and having doubts. You have a veritable arsenal of weapons, agents, and resources at your disposal. What you do with that assembled power is your choice, but know that what you do affects us all.” 

Asaara studied Vivienne’s hand. Her nails were evenly shaped, painted in a brilliant, icy blue. Despite the work she did, her nails had always been immaculate, kept in pristine order even when out in the muddy fields of the Fallow Mire and the like. 

“Is that how you did it? How you got to where you were before the war?”

Those beautiful nails tapped thoughtfully against the tabletop. “It means different things in different settings, but yes. I made myself better because I chose to be. You can do the same.”

“And your nails?”

“Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me a simple creature comfort? Surely you remember the delights of court.” 

Vivienne drew quiet, and Asaara lifted her head to meet her appraising gaze. 

“But that’s part of it, isn’t it? Part of your power? Something you can control, something that influences how others see you. Immaculate and put together, like yourself.” 

“Yes, my dear, that’s precisely it.” Vivienne leaned forward slightly, a sharp smile curling her lips. “If I am to be judged regardless, I will put forward only what I wish to be seen. I control what parts of me outsiders can disseminate, because I know they will - they take one look at us and infer from that first impression. Why not give them only what one wishes to be shared?”

Asaara snorted. “It sounds very… Orlesian.”

“And yet it is universal, as you well know.” Vivienne’s expression gentled, warming as she pulled back. “I’m glad you’re doing well, considering. I was hoping to call for some tea, if you’ve a mind for it.”

“Thank you, Ench - Vivienne. I would like that.” Asaara shuffled in her chair as Vivienne hailed a castle runner. 

It didn’t take long until a tray was delivered, and she let Vivienne take the chore of pouring and serving the assorted treats the kitchen had sent along with their tea. Eating with one hand wasn’t as graceful as with two, but Asaara managed. 

A thought occurred to her, and the teacup clattered in its saucer when she put it down. 

“Blue,” Asaara said. “My favorite color. Not something you can tell with a glance. The color of the sky, of the lake by my childhood home… of the apprentice robes I was given after being taken to the Ansburg circle.”

Vivienne arched a brow at the statement before nodding, her cup lowered politely to her lap. “Flattering, with your hair, but you don’t wear it often.”

“You might understand why.”

“I do.” Vivienne took another sip of her tea. “Purple. The color of Bastien’s first flowers, of a dress I bribed my way into as a young woman. The silk banners that decorated my first ball in Val Royeaux.”

“Power and nobility.”

“And ambition. Wealth. Wisdom.” She paused. “Dignity.”

Asaara studied her tea cup before shakily pouring herself a refill, doing the same for Vivienne. “Thank you, Vivienne,” she said, “for this. For… everything.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear,” she replied with a smile. “Perhaps we should take tea together more often. The garden is certainly shaping up to be a lovely venue.” 

Asaara nodded. “I would like that.” She smiled and retrieved a thin cookie from the tray. “Plus, the kitchen always sends the best treats when you call, I’ve noticed.” 

Vivienne laughed, the sound open and warmer than Asaara had ever heard, and she couldn’t help but join her in her mirth. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "How's "Sarcastic Prompts" #30 “I heard that!” “You were supposed to!” for the OTP of your choosing~?"
> 
> Characters: Varric Tethras, Marian Hawke, Isabela  
> Rating: Teen+ (maybe mature?)

“I swear on Andraste’s flaming knickers, that’s the last time I go anywhere on Guild business.”

Varric all but collapsed into the blankets of his bed, groaning all the way down. He didn’t bother changing out of his clothes, only managing to slide his shirt off before exhaustion threatened to take him where he stood.

“Yeah, I can’t take you anywhere,” he grumbled back. "Poor sods didn't stand a chance."

“How is it that a simple request turned into a bloodbath? And why does that happen every damned time?” She shrugged out of her tunic and dropped it behind her, stepping out of her trousers.

Marian had stripped down to a chemise and smalls before he had the presence of mind to say anything. “Uh, Hawke?” he tried, pointedly looking away.

She snorted. “Too tired to walk up to Hightown, you’re just gonna have to suffer. Move over.”

Varric complied, scooting over to let Marian on the bed. She crawled under the thick blanket and nestled her head under his chin. A tired sigh tickled over his collarbone as she settled, curling into him. He couldn’t resist tickling her calves with his toes, the action drawing a huff of laughter from her. 

“You, Serah Tethras, are the absolute worst,” she muttered into his shoulder. “Promising a lady adventure and decent tea, and ‘probably biscuits’ at the venue. You’re the worst order of liar, probably ever.”

He cracked an eye open to look down at her. “I don’t recall there being a lady, Hawke.”

She gave a halfhearted smack at his arm, her own wobbling with exhaustion. “And I don’t recall there there being biscuits, you ass.” Marian slid her arm around his waist and fisted her fingers in his shirt, anchoring them together.

Varric raised his hand to card through her hair, the strands still damp with sweat and adrenaline. “I’ll get you some of those fancy pastries you like in a couple days, how about that?”

“Wait, why not tomorrow?”

“Because, Magpie, I don’t know about you, but I need to sleep for a week.”

Marian snorted and pulled back to scan his face, still streaked with dust and dried blood. “Can I stay here, then? To make sure I get those pastries?”

He gave a brief smile and pat her hair. “You think I’d step between you and dessert? You must be out of your mind. I don’t think even Broody would risk it.”

“I never know with you, all tricky as you are.”

His heart thudded erratically in his chest at her grin, as tired as it was. Her blue eyes danced even in the low light. Varric’s hand stilled in her hair, moving to brush against her jaw instead. “Mare…”

She licked her lips, her tongue darting out delicately. He couldn’t help but watch.

“Kiss me?” The heat of her words brushed against his skin like a familiar hand, caressing and comforting. “If you want,” she amended.

Varric grinned even as his hand at her nape tipped her head back. “Bossy, bossy,” he admonished, before bending down to press his lips to hers.

If he were to write this scene, there would be a lot of _unfolding_ \- when their mouths met, when his hand sought her hip, when she sighed his name and all earlier thoughts of sleep were forgotten. Sure, it had the initial fumblings of a first time, the slips and skids of limbs that didn't know where to best position themselves, but the finished scene would be all finesse. There would be delighted sighs, quiet, then loud, appreciation. Graceful ease as hands wandered over skin, a rush of breath as fingers sought and found every hollow and curve of their bodies. There would be something new, too, foreign and familiar all the same as they drank of each other, fitting together easily, effortlessly.

He might linger on the way his hands dragged over the tender skin of her back, how his fingers curled over the swell of her hips. The prose might paint a glossy picture of the way her throat worked around his name, or the way it was muttered like a reverent prayer under her breath. If he wrote this out, Varric might focus on the way she felt - warm and tightly coiled, all power and grace - or how Marian’s eyes clenched tight as she fell apart, pulling him along with her.

Well… That particular scene might not get written, he decided later. It might have to stay a more private kind of writing exercise, one he hoped to repeat again.

Marian groaned and collapsed on his chest, a pleased smile brightening her face. “Please don’t put that in the damn book - or any of them,” she murmured, studying his face with hooded eyes. Her hand rose to his cheek, fingertips tracing along his jaw.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Magpie, I promise.” He captured her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles affectionately.

“Good. Because I would really hate to have to kill you before we do that again.”

Varric laughed and shook his head. “Consider me doubly convinced, then; I’d hate to die.”

“I mean it,” she threatened.

“So do I. Now sleep - that week-long nap is sounding better and better.”

Marian rustled against him before settling, turning to stretch her back along his back. She dragged his hand to rest over her belly, his arm heavy around her ribcage, and sighed contentedly. “Okay, now we sleep,” she agreed, voice thick with returned exhaustion, and promptly drifted away.

He pressed a kiss to her hair before nodding off, pulling her tight against his chest.

–

It was still dark out when the door was kicked open and rattled against the frame.

“Varric!” The intruder huffed, panting. “Varric, have you seen -  _Ooh!”_

He cracked an eye open to glare at his visitor as Marian scrambled to pull the blanket up over them. “What’s the point of locking a door if you’re just going to pick it open anyway?” he asked.

Isabela shrugged. “I dunno, but it’s fun to see that face. Soooo, when did this happen? And why wasn’t I invited?”

“Because you’re too loud and chipper in the mornings and I hate you.” Marian reached up and tossed her pillow at Isabela, missing widely.

“Oh, come now, sweet thing, you don’t mean that!”

“Best friend or not, I’m going to kick your really lovely ass if you don’t let me sleep, Izzy.”

“Leave the poor girl her imagination. Looks like she’s still on that dry spell, she could probably use all the help she can get at this point,” Varric muttered. “You know she’s just going to use it to fuel her friend-fiction, anyway.”

_“Rude.”_

Marian laughed. “But not wrong, is he?”

“You both are great big grumps,” Isabela said with a pout. “Well. Now that the great ‘Where’s Marian Hawke’ mystery has been solved, I suppose I can go. Unless you want to explain to Fenris yourself why you missed whatever appointment you two had tonight…? Poor thing was waiting for you all night.”

Marian tensed and let out a low string of curses. “Completely forgot. Could you intercept him for me, tell him I’ll see him tomorrow?”

“Sure thing. Maybe I can even work out some of that frustration with him…” She trailed off with a sly smile that bordered on a leer.

He snorted. “Rivaini. I believe the lady just asked you to go,” Varric reminded her pointedly.

“Oh, all right, all right! But you owe me a story, Marian. And breakfast!”

“And close the door behind you!” he called.

Isabela laughed and shut the door.

“Ugh.” Varric pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Yeah… If we had wanted to keep this low-key, there goes that chance.”

“‘Ugh’ is right,” Marian agreed. “She might be a free-loving busybody, but at least she’s  _our_ free-loving busybody.”

“I heard that!” came Isabela’s muffled voice through the wall, accompanied by a short pound, as if a fist connecting with the plaster.

“You were supposed to!” Marian shouted back. A muted laugh was her response.

Varric shook his head with exasperation. “Back to sleep,” he suggested.

“One more thing first.”

He watched as Marian tumbled from the bed and dragged a chair before the door, jamming it under the handle. Varric cocked a brow at her action.

“Rogues,” she said with a shrug. “Stealer of hearts, pickers of locks. It’s amazing how anything gets done, ever.” She tossed her missing pillow back to the bed before crawling under the blanket once more. “Okay. After all this additional excitement, I need to sleep for a year." 

He chuckled and pulled her to him, letting the rhythm of her breath lull him to sleep. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I missed you" kiss for Hawke and their LI
> 
> Pairing: Marian Hawke/Isabela  
> Rating: T

It was her favorite game. She always lost, but the play was all the more delicious for it. 

Marian walked slowly across the length of the room, the tavern’s myriad of patrons theoretically masking the sounds of her approach. Isabela sat at the near end of the table, straddling her chair backwards as was her wont, gesticulating to Varric and Fenris. If she was very, very good, none of them would notice her, and she could sneak in a win. 

She was almost close enough to tug on Isabela’s kerchief, so close, so close! Marian reached out her hand, fingers twitching, and - 

In a flash she was pressed flat against the table, Isabela’s dagger at her throat before she could get her hands up to defend herself. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, breath stuttering with adrenaline. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth briefly. “Come here often?”

Isabela’s “I’m going to shank you” face quickly dissipated, and she chuckled. “What are - oh, Hawke, you silly thing.” Isabela shook her head and let her dagger clatter to the table. 

“You must have a death wish,” Fenris muttered exasperatedly somewhere behind her. 

“Just got back into town,” Marian said with a grin. “I missed you.”  

Isabela hummed, a devious smile curling over her lips. “That sounds an awful lot like an emotional outburst, Hawke,” she admonished. Her long hair tickled Marian’s cheeks and neck as she pressed closer, dark gaze hot. “You know how much I prefer action over words.” 

Marian grinned and pulled her down, wrapping her legs around Isabela’s thighs and holding her close. Her hands tangled in Bela’s hair to the sound of wolf-whistles from the other patrons around them. She laughed and captured Isabela’s lips in a kiss, hungry and insistent. 

“Get a room, you two!” Varric scolded. “Some of us are trying to be respectful members of society over here.” 

“Mm, maybe yours?” Marian shot back.

Isabela grinned and helped her from the table, looping an arm over her shoulder before gently leading her toward the stairs. “Come on, sweet thing," she purred, "why don't you come show me how much you missed me.” 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddle prompt: Platonic cuddles for a BroTP
> 
> Characters: Cassandra Pentaghast, Cullen Rutherford  
> Rating: G

“You look unwell, Cullen. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

Cullen bites back a groan and straightens at the table, shifting uneasily in his seat. “I’m fine,” he says shakily. He lays his hands flat on the tabletop, all the better to control the tremors that shook them. 

He can see her scowl in the corner of his eye as she sits beside him on the bench. 

“Liar.”

“I’m fine,” he insists again. “Just… just taking a quick lunch break.” 

Only half of his words hold any truth, but he clings to them anyway. He needs the strength of them, needs to remind himself that he can get through the day. If he says them enough, perhaps it will come true. 

Cassandra huffs and waves down a server, placing her own order for lunch before turning back to him. “You know you can tell me when things are difficult, Cullen,” she reminds him, her tone even for all the frustration he knows it hides. “You are allowed to take a break, to delegate.” 

“Am I?”

The words come out more bitter than he meant, heavy with aches and pains and nightmares, with the metallic taste of lyrium that still manages to burn the back of his throat, even months after weaning himself off the substance. 

“Yes. You are. And, I would say, you are expected to.” 

Cassandra wraps an arm around his shoulder. It’s… awkward, but kind, her fingers twisting uncertainly in the fur of his mantle. Her other hand finds his shoulder and she rests there in the half-hug. 

Cullen takes a breath - Maker, it might be the first full breath he’d taken all day - and leans into her, resting his cheek against her temple. 

“I find that a walk in the garden helps me when I am troubled,” she offers. Her voice is pitched quiet, low and soft, even though they’re the only two people on this level of the tavern. Careful about his feelings, about his privacy, she only talks to him about this when they are alone. “The… blooming, the life of it, helps me when I need guidance.” 

He sighs. “I don’t have time,” he begins, only to feel her shake her head. 

“Make time,” she tells him, and once more he is given orders, a command, but her stern words demand no real action of him, no obedience, no abuse. “Make time for yourself, Cullen. You need it.” 

Her fingers tap on the metal of his pauldron, hidden under the mantle of his coat. It’s a habit he’s noticed, the errant drumming of her fingertips, on the pommel of her sword, on the table, on whatever surface they rest upon, and he smiles. 

He appreciates the human side of the Seeker, the Cassandra under the weight of her responsibility. 

“You need to rest,” she tells him. “And you should make more time for it. Or do I need to tell the Inquisitor how you are working yourself sick again? After all their hard work?”

“That’s a low blow, Cassandra,” he sputters. Cullen almost pulls away from her, but can’t quite find the gumption to do so. “I… I sleep fine.”

She snorts. “You are lying, again. Don’t lie, Cullen, it’s not good for you.” Cassandra pauses. “Should I tell Mother Giselle how much you’ve missed her sermons? Surely I could convince her to come to your office, offer some personal teachings for you.”

 _“Maker_ , no, don’t do that _.”_

Steps on the stairs alert them to the server’s approach, and Cassandra shuffles off to sit opposite him. She stirs her stew with quiet contemplation, leaving him to his thoughts.  

“Recovery, rehabilitation, it’s a journey,” she says, “or so the Inquisitor tells me. It’s… it’s path with no clear destination, because the path itself is the rehabilitation.” 

Cullen looks up at her voice, interrupting his unfocused study of his mug of ale. 

Cassandra purses her lips, pokes at her stew, and tries again, opening and closing her mouth when she can’t find the right words. She sighs. “I wish I had Varric’s way with words. Maybe this would be easier. But words or not, I am here for you.”

Her hand has made its way to the table, and her fingers lay over his own with a silent confidence he wishes he feels. 

“Thank you,” is all he can say. He pauses. “But please don’t send the Revered Mother to my office.” 

Cassandra laughs and turns back to her stew. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver walks Merrill home. 
> 
> Tags: drinking/alcohol  
> Rating: T

“Little Hawke,” Merrill asks sleepily at the end of the night, her cheeks blushy with drink, “would you walk me home?”

Carver flushes and ducks his head slightly under the amused weight of everyone’s gaze. Hawke smiles knowingly from behind a dingy tankard, eyes aglow in mirthful enjoyment. Merrill’s hand grips sloppily at his bicep and he swallows down an urge to snap at his know-it-all sibling, at the moniker she had laid upon him that never fit right but he could never seem to shake.

Her eyes are a glassy grey-green that remind him of hills and moss and Ferelden and a home that never feels quite right but that is all he has.

“I guess—sure,” he answers, tongue thick and clumsy from an earlier impromptu drinking contest. He lost, but only just barely, and his rebellious body doesn’t mind the difference. Carver wobbles when he stands.

They stumble down the stairs, her arm on his, half leaning over each other and half clinging to the walls. It’s an easy thing for her hand to nestle at the crook of his arm when they exit the tavern—a lady and a gentleman, like the Amell part of Leandra Hawke wished for all through his childhood.

Carver shakes his head at the idea of his mother where Merrill is so close, wide-eyed and wondrous.

“Your arms are just so… big.” She whispers the words as if admitting a secret. They’re down the first set of steps toward the alienage and she stops, a sleepy smile sprawling over her face. “So strong, Little Hawke. Not so little!”

Merrill titters and gazes at him—really _sees_ him, and his skin feels too tight and his hands too big under her study. His father’s hushed lessons on magic ring in his ears like the warning bells across the farmlands that had screamed wolves, that had screamed danger.

His drum of a heartbeat screams _blood mage, blood mage._

“Come on,” Carver mutters uneasily, cheeks red and fingers twitching. He turns back down the stairs and learns that a hearty Fereldan farmboy weathers a night of peaty Ferelden whisky easier than an elven woman, and Merrill tumbles on the thick granite steps.

But Carver Hawke has protected mages from the world all his life, and one hand snaps to her wrist and the other to her waist before he even registers her fall.

Merrill plasters herself against him, a line of trembling limbs and frantic heartbeats. “Oh,” she breathes as he helps her to flat ground, “that was close.”

“Yeah,” he says, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they wander to her waist without his say-so and he can’t say he’s not entirely pleased with the way she blushes from her collar to the tips of her ears.

She’s so pretty when she blushes.

(It helps make up for the fact that she calls him “Little Hawke.”)

Carver shakes his head and shifts, lifting Merrill into his arms like a sack of potatoes, half-draped along his shoulder and chest. “Don’t want you to fall,” he mumbles at her woozy protest, and he walks carefully down the flights of stairs back toward the alienage.

She’s warm, filled with cheap ale and the fire she wields so easily that flows through her, and she lounges easily against him. “Oh,” Merrill yawns, and her hand rises to pat his cheek. “I’ll just… stay here then.”

He doesn’t blush, no he _doesn’t,_ when she presses a sloppy kiss to his jaw.

Merrill’s all but asleep by the time they make it to the alienage. She jostles back to wakefulness on the last steps to the elves’ quarter, looking up at him with a goofy, amused smile.

“Hoooome,” she caterwauls happily, tumbling to the ground faster than Carver can let her go. She pulls a thick iron key from her belt and stumbles through the door. “Come in, come in!”

“You should sleep,” he says. Carver isn’t sure he could make it through the door, anyway, spinning around as it is. He looks over his shoulder toward the steps leading back to Lowtown. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!”

Merrill turns and leans against the doorframe. “You could stay,” she offers. “I could—I could…” Her brow creases with concentration for a moment before clearing again. “Oh, I know! I could make you breakfast in the morning if you stayed.”

His heart stutters in his chest. _Blood mage,_ it beats out, _blood mage._

But in their band of possessed mages and pirates and exiled princes and lyrium ghosts, it’s hard to weigh her choices and find them horrible, not when she’s never done anything even remotely evil. Stupid, maybe, but Merrill is so genuine and sincere and _nice_ that it makes his teeth ache sometimes. 

“Okay,” Carver says, just this side of breathless, and he clears his throat to try again. “Okay. Sure. I’ll stay.”

The look that crests over Merrill ’s face is better than any Fereldan sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr at [ocean-in-my-rebel-soul!](https://ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com)  
> 
> 
> Comments and concrit always appreciated! Thank you for reading!


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